


Gravedigger, Gardener

by nymja



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:01:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2659622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He buries the bodies.</p><p>(Because there is more to these delinquents than a criminal record. There was more to Jake Griffin than a recording. And there is more to life than just surviving it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravedigger, Gardener

**Author's Note:**

> I was wondering why someone who lived on a space ship for their entire life would come to the conclusion to bury the bodies, and this happened. Not compliant with the book canon, sorry about that!

When Wells was seven years old, he committed his first act of disobedience.

It had been during the exercise hour of school, when Ms. Asimov took the line of first graders she had been charged with, and walked them around the skyway halls that lay outside their classroom. He remembers holding Clarke’s hand (she was his buddy, and they were responsible for each other), and trying to keep up with her fast, sure steps as they went around the same circle they’ve done countless times before. As they looked out the same glass windows, that showed the same empty vastness of space.

But, on the day he broke a rule, the doors to one of the botanical cultivation centers was open. And he remembers that instead of seeing the black drop of the sky, or the metallic lining of the halls, there were _colors._ Greens, and oranges, and reds. Purples. Browns.

(He had a plant in his room—green with a white flower, given to him from Mrs. Kane after one of the ceremonies he didn’t quite remember. Dad had said, in his Sad Voice, to keep it. So Wells watered it and put it under the lamp four times a day, and when it eventually died, Dad explained that it wasn’t because of anything he failed to do. But looking at the leaves, crisp and brittle and brown and falling off, still hurt somehow.)

When she noticed the plants, Clarke had stopped too.

(Because she loved drawing, and he noticed she liked yellow and orange the most, because during craft time she would keep those pencils to the side of the table, carefully hidden underneath the wax paper they were allowed to draw on so they wouldn’t have to be shared).

Ms. Asimov always said a buddy stops when his partner does. And so Wells remembers that they had shared a mutual look of conspiracy, before they both ran away from the group and into the greenhouse when their teacher was distracted by another kid (Murphy, he thinks) tripping someone.

They stayed in there for hours, playing in the dirt and smelling the flowers and pretending that they were somewhere magical called _Earth._ And when Ms. Asimov came into the greenhouse with a man wearing all black, they hid behind the rows of planted trees and waited until they left.

He remembers playing in the dirt, the dark creases of soil that were embedded underneath his nails. He remembers picking what he thought was the prettiest flower (it turned out to be the bloom of a squash plant, but it was still yellow and orange), and giving it to Clarke, who folded it neatly into thirds and put it into her pocket. Wells remembers the quiet of the room being the most comfortable thing about it, no gears or filters. No electric hums beyond the noise of the irrigation system and the dull sound of the heating lamps. He remembers them both laughing and throwing leaves at each other.

And then he remembers coming home, at the end of the day, to his father’s reserved, cold anger.

“A lot of people were looking for you and Clarke. You made us worry.”

Wells looked at the ground, and the dirt still on top of his shoes, “It reminded me of the flower.”

Dad had frowned, “What flower?”

And he had tried to explain, “The white one. That died.”

And then something had changed with dad. He had cleared his throat. He waited a few seconds before speaking. And then Wells remembers how he put a hand on his shoulder, heavy and strong, “Those plants are valuable resources, and many scientists, like Clarke’s father, work hard to keep them alive. They are not toys. Do you understand, son?”

Wells understood Resources. And so he nodded. And promised not to go back to the botanical center, even though it had made him happier to be there than the stupid skyway.

(He learns, a few years later, that the white flower was something called a Peace Lily. And that it had been on the memorial altar after his mother had been sent to the Deep.)

\--

It’s ten years, and a second act of disobedience, before Wells touches dirt again.

\--

He’s decided he can’t leave them in there. The bodies of the two teenagers who followed Finn’s reckless actions are in collapsed heaps near the seating. One of them is still impaled. It bothers him that they have been left there, all but forgotten in the excitement of touching the ground. He doesn’t know their crimes, but he does know that even those who were Floated for the most serious of offenses were permitted memorial services if requested by the deceased’s family.

(As Chancellor’s son, he has attended all of them. He has seen widows fall to their knees, he has seen near incitements of riots. Twice, he has seen grieving relatives try to assassinate his father as he presided over the ceremony. He has held the hand of Clarke’s mother, even knowing what she did. Because Clarke is always going to be his buddy. He is always going to be responsible for her. And he is never going to leave her behind no matter how hard she tries to get him to.)

He doesn’t bother asking for help, as he strips the bodies of what can be used (though he leaves enough to give them some matter of dignity). The majority of camp is outright hostile to him, and the dropship is a quiet, isolated enough place for him to walk into and never leave. So Wells takes down the body of the impaled boy himself, despite the screaming pain in his leg.

And then he wonders what to do.

Because there isn’t a Deep to commit them to. And he doesn’t know how to build a fire.

And he’s already decided he can’t leave them here.

(He steps outside for a moment to think, smells the crisp air, feels the sun, and sees the vibrant, vivid colors in a way he hasn’t seen them for almost ten years. And he thinks of Clarke, and his Peace Lily, and the life that sprang from the soil.

And Wells makes another decision.)

\--

He puts the bodies on a tarp. And he drags the tarp through the 100’s makeshift camp. Several look on in curiosity, but no one offers to help. And it cements his decision even further.

(Because Wells has seen the families of those who were condemned. And, somewhere, he imagines someone has lost a child for a second time.)

\--

Eventually, he finds a clearing where he doesn’t have to kill any plants in order to bury something.

\--

On the Ark, there is never a shortage of work. But there is something more honest in digging into the ground, something more straining in feeling his palms blister and his back pull as sweat collects under his arms and down his spine. He digs for the span of a day, with black crescents forming under his fingernails.

(And he thinks about the botany classes he took, the one luxury the son of the Chancellor afforded himself besides late night viewings of football games well past over. He thinks about how deep a seed has to be before the earth can help it form roots.)

He makes a place for each of them, these boys he doesn’t know the names of. Because they, like himself and Clarke, and the others, are more than just a bracelet. More than a statistic. And, unwillingly or not, they came to the ground in order to help others survive. And that’s honorable enough for a decent burial.

(Because there is more to these delinquents than a criminal record. There was more to Jake Griffin than a recording. And there is more to life than just surviving it.)

It’s late in the afternoon when Wells finally finishes. And he remembers the words that he had listened to so many times over in the name of duty. So he says them, quietly, in the silence that exists somewhere without the electric hums of power couplings and the whirs of mechanical gears.

“We hereby commit these souls to the deep. May they be remembered forever until there is no more pain, no more suffering, and the abyss itself shall give up her dead and return them to us.”

(Because there is a line between survival and humanity, Resources and vitality, and Wells believes that he can help secure it with awkward, heavy shovelfuls of dirt.)

He uses his makeshift shovel to hold his exhausted body up, and wonders if lilies still grow on Earth.


End file.
